“Englishmen?” he queried.
“I’m American,” I apologized.
“The thunder you are!” cried the priest, “So’m I. On the beach, eh?”
“Yep,” I answered.
“Well, come up on deck, mates. But first,” he added hastily, in more solemn tones, “in respect for the revered Buddha and his disciples, take off your shoes down there.”
“And socks?” I asked, struggling with a knot in one of my laces.
“Naw,” returned the priest, “just the kicks.”
We crossed the veranda and, having deposited our shoes in a sort of washtub outside the door, followed the renegade inside.
The typical Indian bungalow is a very simple structure. The Oriental carpenter considers his task finished when he has thrown together—if the actions of so apathetic a workman may be so described—a frame-work of light poles, boarded them up on the outside, and tossed a roof of thatch on top. The interior he leaves to take care of itself, and the result is a dwelling as rough and ungarnished as an American hay-loft.
The room in which we found ourselves was some twenty feet square and extremely low of ceiling, its skeleton of unhewn beams all exposed, like the ribs of a cargo steamer. Two rectangular openings in opposite walls, innocent of frame or glass, admitted a current of night air that made the chamber almost habitable. In the center of the floor, which was polished smooth and shining by the shuffle of bare feet, was a large grass mat; while beyond, on a low daïs, squatted a gorgeous, life-sized statue of Buddha.